Mr Poetaster
by esprimersi
Summary: After betrayal inspiration is lost, but two hands gently remind him: he loves haiku. KiraxReader


**Disclaimer: **BLEACH and it's characters © _Kubo Tite_. I own nothing but the prose~

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Somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten what it's like to smile. He's not lonely and life is not particularly unfulfilling, but it is empty nevertheless. Now he is the shell of a solitary cicada, shrivelled and dead but there is one distinct difference: he is still moving, slowly and without direction, but he is moving and he will always be moving... because he can do nothing else.

The barracks are cold at night, even icier now, in fact, with remnants of betrayal still echoing through the walls. His loyalty is broken and his bed hard as he listens through the dark; the creak of the nightingale floor, the cry of a retreating heron, the song of the cicada against the silvery moon. But it is all so cold and he is frozen, trying to escape the past and noise of the present as it drums in his head. It's ruthless, it won't let him sleep... but he doesn't really want to rest because he knows he'll only dream of fear.

There are footsteps outside his room for a moment, and he wonders if it's _him_, returning with that wide, cunning grin to finish the job... But it passes and he is left in the dark again with his heart pounding and head screaming for escape. What, he wonders, was it like to smile?

Regret is a terrible thing; the broken devotion is but a catalyst to make the guilty lamentations all the more intense. It's true, rice wine with friends help, it clears his mind and makes him think perhaps that everything is going to be okay, but it always passes, and he finds himself with another, different, pounding against his brow. He feels sick.

More footsteps... they arrive at the shoji as he wonders. The moon allows him a glimpse of what hides behind and the result is fear again because the shadow is tall and thin — just like _him_. Fingers curl around the wood, they pull slowly and quietly, and the owner is revealed from behind thin paper sheets. He doesn't notice, but the slivers of moonlight that have been allowed through the window are doing nothing more than accentuate his pallor as his colour fades, as his stoic eyes become tense, and he looks like he's—

"A ghost. You look like you've seen a ghost." The voice is hushed through the dark, not to wake the rest of the squadron, but it makes the knot of tension in his body uncoil. A quiet breath of relief leaves his lips.

It's not _him_, but the figure is eerily gray as the moon touches their skin — your skin. It's strangely endearing, and another sigh leaves his lips. "I thought I had." He admits.

You smile, slipping further into the room and sealing the exit behind you. Your bare feet are soundless against the straw mats but rustle against the futon as your toes brush against it. Slowly, you settle by the upright male, fingers caressing the sinew of his bicep.

"I'm sorry for scaring you." He shakes his head once, but doesn't feel like saying anything; he's tired and cold and it's too late for pointless banter anyway. "You look exhausted." As the statement is made your palm touches his chest, urging him to lie back and rest his head. He's tired, and complies, watching as you pull the covers over him and over you. The warmth is comforting. "I wrote a poem the other day." You whispered, "It isn't good but I know you like haiku. I'll show you tomorrow, if you like?"

He nods but refuses his voice once again; he can barely lift a finger anymore. Even the insects are beginning to still and he feels like he can finally close his eyes. It's warm now and he's drowsy, so drowsy...

He doesn't remember dreaming anything at all, but as dawn pulls him from slumber he recalls through a gentle haze: your lips gently stroked his forehead, the desire for a pen to touch his fingers hit so suddenly. 5, 7, 5. Beauty, seasons, change...

_Quick! Cicada's still—  
Now, it's always silent when  
I'm safe in your arms._

For a moment, he wills his lips to curl, but they don't... he knows it's too soon. For now, he can't and he holds the pen tightly, nib scratching against the surface of a leaf.

No, it's too soon today but tomorrow? He might.


End file.
